Amerika (5 page)

I keyed the microphone. ‘Too late,
Fraulein
. They’re already shooting at us.’

‘Say again last?’

‘I said, we surrender, we’re coming down.’

Terrorism is the best political weapon for nothing drives people harder than the fear of death.

- Adolf Hitler

‘P
apers,’ the Nazi official snapped.

I played it stupid. ‘Huh?’

‘Your documents, a passport, some means of identification.’

He stood up from his desk and marched around to face us. He wore a dark grey suit, white shirt and black tie. But I bet you even money his SS uniform wasn’t far away, probably hanging in his closet, waiting for the victory parade down Pennsylvania Avenue, so that he could goose step past the rubble of the White House along with the rest of his skull-and-bones buddies.

I fished for my wallet and nudged Orlando. ‘Got anything that says who you are?’

He drew himself up sharply and stuck out his chest. ‘I am Orlando Diaz, a United States citizen.’ He turned to our inquisitor. ‘And who are you to speak to us in such an insulting manner?’

Orlando’s response took the official by surprise so much that he automatically answered, ‘Hauptman Ritter, assistant commandant of Washington Regional Air Traffic Compliance Center.’

I stuck out my hand. ‘Glad to meet you Mr. Ritter. I’m Sam Carter, and let me say right up front that me and Orlando are mighty sorry we flew into your airspace. We got to talking about some fishing we got planned, and before we knew it your boys were up there shooting at us like we were some kind of enemy. Must admit it came as quite a surprise. Yes, sir, it did.’

Ritter stared at my hand but didn’t take it. Not a good sign. But I kept up my hillbilly routine, because I didn’t know any other way to escape this brightly-lit office situated off a long corridor that connected to a dimly-lit room filled with Nazi air controllers keeping the restricted skies over Washington, D.C. clear of commercial air traffic like ours.

Only moments ago we had landed at National Airport, three miles south of ground zero. Even at this distance, their main hangars had been severely damaged from the blast and the control tower taken out completely.  In its place, the
SS Waffen
had installed a Luftwaffe mobile field tower.

And that’s what I saw when I banked the S-38 into her final approach. Just as I flared for landing, the two Me-109s who had jumped us did a double victory roll overhead and went back on patrol. Arrogant bastards. But truth be told, fighter pilots are tough, wiry, clever and competitive, no matter their nationality. I ought to know. I’ve gotten in arguments with enough of them and some fights with a few and never came out a winner.

I held out my well-worn pilot’s license to the official. ‘Will this do?’

Ritter examined it, jotted something on a piece of paper with his gold- tipped ink pen, and handed it back.

He glared at Orlando. ‘And you?’

‘Like I said, mister.’ Orlando spread open his huge hands, palms up, like pink catchers’ mitts. ‘I’m an American.’

He frowned. ‘You are a Negro.’

‘So?’

‘I want proof of your identity!’

He shrugged.  ‘I got me a birth certificate floating around back home somewhere, if that’s what you mean.’

Ritter’s eyes tightened. ‘Don’t play the fool with me.’

‘Oh, surely I ain’t, sir.’ Orlando rummaged in his pants pockets and proceeded to play it even more stupid. ‘Lemme, see if I gots anythin’ else that might hep you out.’

He pulled out a penknife and a handful of change and placed them on the desk. Then a tightly-rolled wad of fifty-dollar bills.

‘Couldja’ hold this please? Almost a thousand dollars. My life savings.’

Without blinking his cold gray eyes, Ritter took the money and hefted it. ‘Why don’t you keep this in a bank?’

Orlando laughed. ‘Ever hear of the Depression?’

Ritter brightened. ‘Ah, yes. The Jews and their banks. They nearly did America in.’

‘And you’re doing us in instead,’ I said without thinking.

He shot me a look. I kept my face neutral and said, ‘
Deutschland über Alles’
, isn’t that the song you guys sing all the time?’

‘Germany truly is over all.’

Ritter smoothly slipped Orlando’s roll of bills into his pocket. ‘I think you gentlemen have learned that lesson firsthand today. Haven’t you?’

‘Yes sir, Mr. Ritter,’ Orlando said. ‘We surely have, haven’t we, Sam?’

His face was impassive, but still waters run deep with that man.

Ritter returned to his desk, sat down and pressed a button on a small speaker. ‘Escort the prisoners out.’

‘Jawohl, Kapitan.’

‘Prisoners?’ I said. ‘Now, wait just a second.’

Ritter smiled. ‘Don’t worry Mr. Carter. It’s just a formality while you are under our jurisdiction.’ He patted the bulge of money in his pocket.

‘The moment you lift off from the runway, you will be free of that term.’

Two tough-looking, bullet-headed men entered the office wearing civilian clothes just like Ritter, but if they weren’t SS troopers I’ll eat my hat. To their credit they didn’t handcuff us, but I felt them on my wrists just the same. As much as I hated it, I shook hands with Ritter.

‘Sorry about what happened. I promise it will never happen again.’

Ritter took it. ‘We all make mistakes.’

‘Even Nazis?’

He laughed at my little joke and waved us out.

I expected to leave the building and head over to the apron where our S-38 sat waiting for us to continue our journey south. Instead they marched us down a set of stairs, then along a darkened corridor, and brought us to a halt in front of a holding cell.

‘What the hell’s going on here?’

The first thug said, ‘We need to get your release papers.’

‘Then get them. We’ll wait out by the plane.’

The second thug said softly, ‘Sorry, sir. Regulations. It won’t be long, I assure you.’

Even though his face was kind and reassuring, I didn’t like the smell of this. From the look on Orlando’s face, neither did he. But we had no choice in the matter. When in Nazi-land, you do as the Nazis do. So in we went.

The door clanged shut and sure as hell, ‘a few minutes’ turned into an hour, then two, and then four. Repeated shouting and banging on the bars brought no response. Even Orlando bellowing his demands in his preacher- sized voice made no difference.  Sometime around midnight a man brought food to our cell. He refused to answer any questions. Just shoved the metal trays through the slot provided. Two sausages swam in some kind of tan-colored cream sauce, surrounded by boiled potatoes and pale green peas. Orlando picked up a potato, examined it, and dropped it. ‘I bribed that son of a bitch for nothing.’

‘Eat up,’ I said. ‘We need our energy to figure out how we’re going to get out of this mess.’

‘All because you... because...’ Orlando stumbled to a stop.

‘Because I wanted to see their graves?’

Like a light switch, his angry face softened into sadness, he closed his eyes and nodded.

‘Sweet Estelle and baby Eddie.  May they rest in everlasting peace, Amen.’

‘Amen.’

‘And while you’re at it Lord, grant us the wisdom to figure out how to get out of this pickle Brother Sam got us into.’

I dreamed Estelle was running ahead of me, but no matter how loud I shouted, she wouldn’t stop. My daughter Abby held baby Eddie in her arms and cried, ‘Hurry, Daddy, hurry, she’s getting away!’ But the faster I ran the softer the ground became and I kept falling to my knees. I tried shouting again, but nothing came out.

‘Mr. Carter.’

The deep male voice was soft, yet insistent and I awoke to see a weary- looking, round face of a balding, middle-aged man with friendly blue eyes behind glittering glasses bending over me, and it all came back in a rush: getting jumped by the Nazis, forced to land in Washington D.C. and now stuck in jail.

The cell door was open behind him. But he read my mind and pressed down on my shoulder. ‘You are free to go. Mr. Diaz, too. There’s been a terrible mistake and I’m here to apologize.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Max Bauer.’

He nudged Orlando, who woke with a jump and Bauer leaped back as if shot. For an overweight middle-aged man he had the grace of a bull fighter dodging Orlando’s horns. Bauer re-adjusted the fit of his full-length grey leather jacket, smoothed his lapels, and then beamed at my partner.

‘Good morning Mr. Diaz. I won’t ask if you slept well. These cells are notorious in that department.’

‘I repeat, who are you?’

‘My official title
is Sturmbahnfüher der Polizei fur Geheime Staatspolize.
But I much prefer Max.’

‘What’s that mean in English?’

‘I’m what you Americans call a ‘cop.’

‘And?’

‘And I have just finished arresting
Herr
Ritter for  placing personal greed  before  the  needs  of  the  Third  Reich,  ‘
Heil  Hitler
,’  and  all  the attendant praise therein for our brave leader in Berlin.’ His face grew hard. ‘Ritter will get ten years at hard labor if I have anything to say about it. And I most certainly do.’

He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out Orlando’s wad of fifty-dollar bills. ‘It’s taken me six months to catch that snake in the grass with his hand in the till, and today was the day, thanks to you.’

He handed Orlando the money. ‘My apologies to you, sir. This should never have happened.’

Still half-asleep, ‘The Bull of Key West’ pocketed it without saying a word.

Undaunted, Bauer continued ‘Your plane has been fueled and serviced at our expense, including adjusting a faulty fuel connection on your number two engine, and an issue you had with your landing gear. I also had your flight plan modified and extended to reflect your unfortunate detention here. And finally, as a courtesy, we have breakfast waiting for you in our cafeteria. American bacon and eggs I’m told, plus a box lunch for you to take with you on your trip to Key West where your daughter and mother, I’m most certain, nervously await.’

‘How do you know all this stuff?’

‘Once the Gestapo intelligence machine gets up and running, it’s a marvel to behold. And run it did late last night when your name came across the wires and onto my desk.’

He referred to a small index card. ‘You have very detailed employment records with Pan American Airways, including your untimely dismissal. That event, coupled with records of your bereavement in losing family members on the December 8th attack on Washington D.C. makes for a very clear picture of one Samuel J. Carter, except I don’t know what your middle initial stands for.’

‘Why the hell should I tell you?’

He grinned. ‘My guess is that it’s ‘John’ because that was your father’s name. An engineer on the Florida Coast Railroad, it says here.’

‘What else does it say? Like how many times I take a crap?’

‘Nothing more actually, other than the name of your daughter, Abigail, and her age.’ He tucked the card away. His smooth face softened slightly. ‘I have a family too.’

He hesitated and I stared at him, wondering where this fat German cop in a grey leather trench coat was going with all this chatter.

‘Two boys. They’re grown and in the service of their country; one in the Wehrmacht, the other the Luftwaffe, and I fear for their safety every minute of every day. But you have already suffered what I only fear. The loss of your wife and son, and I am deeply sorry that happened.’

I wanted to punch him in his prissy little mouth, but the sincerity in his voice stopped me cold. I know the ring of truth when I hear it, so I muttered, ‘Thanks.’

‘May this war end soon,’ he said.

‘It never even started here.’

‘True.’ He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his short nose.

‘But it rages everywhere else. If only Russia would fall, I do believe that der

Führer would end things once and for all.’

‘England will keep on fighting.’

He smiled as though I were a two-year-old. ‘You know that cartoon where the big man places his hand on the little man’s head who’s trying to punch him? That’s Germany and England at the moment. Churchill can plot and plan all he wants to up in Canada while the King and Queen drink their afternoon tea with him and listen to him go on and on about fighting on the beaches when they return. But the truth is, England is no longer a nation, it is an idea.’